


If you just hold on

by alphadick



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore, Reunion, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3352184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphadick/pseuds/alphadick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron thinks of nothing but Nasir while nailed to the crucifix and regrets his decisions before being once more reunited with his love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you just hold on

**Author's Note:**

> Basically was rewatching the series and got to that part and I wanted to write something about what Agron might have been feeling during those moments.

He thinks, _fuck the gods, fuck the romans, I want him,_ as last breaths of life escape body in early morning sun. Blood leaks from stabs of stake through palm but he does not feel pain anymore. His body betrays him, weak when all he desires is strength enough that he may be able to drag himself to the only home he knows. The only home he has left.

He thinks of his _home’s_ peculiar affliction for raised eyebrows and biting sarcasm, for wildcat hisses before battle but similarly in bed. His home is a great distance from him in mind and power but incredibly close in distance.

He prays to the gods for the first time, not scorning them like usual for the deaths of his loved ones in hopes that at least one of these holy beings will take pity and grant him his desire. Hope drowns in seas of images of what he had and would like to have again. Ghost hands wander his body as the morning sun caresses his skin like fire. He’s been strung up on the cross for two days now and it’s a wonder he hasn’t passed from blood loss but the Roman fucks just laugh and call him “foolishly stubborn rebel scum that sticks to life like dog shit to sandal”.

And if it keeps him alive long enough to hope for eyes to rest on his loved one’s again then he will be stubborn rebel scum. “Nasir,” he howls through parched throat and even drier lips, the sound only coming out in the weakest of gasps as if a fish thrown upon the sand.

Midday passes and Agron realizes he must have briefly lost his touch with the world. A Roman soldier comes to jar his dangling foot but pain no longer bothers him as if connection to his body has been severed. His head rolls to the side, hollow eyes tracking the laughing faces of the Roman dogs like lasers. He will have his vengeance, one day, like a god from the heavens he will rain down upon them a fire so fierce they will know the pain they have caused by their imprisonment, by the deaths they have caused, by their arrogance.

He is drifting when three Romans stomp over angrily and lift him from his cross, faces angrily set as they drop him to the ground none too gently. They slash the cloth binding his arms to the wood, unmindful of the cuts they leave on his arms, and pull the pegs from his palms as well. Agron cannot bring himself to stand; feet sliding out from under him on sand and arms weak with days spent hanging. The Romans laugh and spit at him but their words fall on deaf ears. As blood rushes into parts unused for days on end new feeling comes back to him. Agron’s body goes weak with pain, thousands of pinpricks of fire alighting his skin and settling into the holes in the center of his hands where they remain burning.

Two caught rebels are ordered to drag him to stand and a hoarse grunt releases itself from his chest without his permission. He does not think there to be any blood left in his body but yet it leaks from the wounds he has sustained, reanimated with his sudden movement. Where the sudden change of heart has come from he knows not, having thought the Romans were keen to see him perish in the sun on the crucifix.

His feet drag uselessly at times but the two rebels keep him upright with murmured words of encouragement, they must be speaking lies because Agron hears them speak of home, of the rebel encampment a mere short walk from where the Romans have struck up their own army. He does not care whether this is a march to the death but he would wish for them to not tease with hope of returning to loved ones.

It comes as great surprise when a kind hand alights on his shoulder and draws his head up with joyous noise of hope restored. “Brother, I thought you lost to Roman horde, it brings great heart to know you are yet among the living,” Spartacus smiles softly, momentarily drawing the mar of war from his eyes and replacing it with brotherhood and hope.

“Is this but a dream? I have woken to similar images and believed them to be real, but they proved to only be the workings of a sun fevered mind,” Agron croaks, body passed from the two rebels to Spartacus’ strong shoulders.

“No brother, you have returned to your family, beaten but alive to live another day and fight.”

Agron’s legs give out with relief, body failing him as emotion takes over and his only wish is to be with Nasir once more. “And what of Nasir, please do not tell me the gods have wrested him from my arms while I yet survive the hands of the Romans?” He almost dares not ask, but the need to know consumes him like the fire of his wounds. Why should he go on if the one he loves is no longer of this earth? What more would he have to live for? With Duro gone and Nasir he would have nothing.

“He lives Agron, devastated that you had seemingly been lost as was Crixus. However, you defy the gods and return to his arms tonight.” Spartacus starts leading him towards their Rebel camp, steps careful to keep up with Agron’s slow pace. “Take heart Agron, the gods look favorably upon you and Nasir." 

And is not it so? Agron is on his way to being reunited with his soul’s mate and he may have been beaten and half dead but he defied death to be reunited. If that does not prove existence of the gods then Agron would have to be blind to fate’s intervention.

The murmur of lives clamor around him, cries of despair and reunion as loved ones are reunited or news is shared of their passing. Sparticus leads him on, but his head hangs with exhaustion and pain…and a bit of shame. Shame that he left Nasir’s side and was almost parted from him for mere vengeance. Vengeance that could have also been taken at the man’s side because the war they have waged springs from all directions.

He feels the touch on his chin before he hears him, raises head slowly to see Nasir looking at him like gift from the gods themselves.

“I was fool to ever leave them,” falls from his lips without pause, needing to say the words and acknowledge his foolishness. And Nasir’s face immediately softens, hand cupping his jaw like he would when Agron was upset.

“Come, put thoughts of past far from mind and more towards future,” Nasir wrests him from Spartacus’ arms, helping him towards the tent Nasir has staked out for himself. Friends murmur words of gratitude to the gods as they pass him; light touches on his shoulders to let him know they are glad to have their brother back amongst them.

In the tent Agron feels at home even though he has yet to ever see it, but it smells like Nasir and the man is here. He but needs nothing else to complete his happiness. Nasir deposits him on the cot, large enough for two men as if Nasir knew he would be back eventually and never gave up hope. It also attests to Nasir’s desire to see him back in his arms with the cloak of Agron’s lain over the edge of the bed as if it is worn often by the Syrian. Other bits of Agron’s life are about, the man’s leather chord he often wore around his neck now adorning the slim golden brown column of Nasir’s throat.

The man leaves him on the cot, strength keeping him seated when he would only wish to stick himself to the man’s side. He retrieves water and sustenance and strips of cloth for Agron’s hands. Nasir is quiet as he works, first holding the clay cup for Agron to drink from and cutting him off before he becomes sick from too much at once. He slowly feeds the man, bits and pieces of meat torn and pushed to his lips so that he takes them and chews before he can receive more. He is treated as if new babe still dependent on mother’s well taught hands. However, Nasir only seeks to nurse him back to health and does not seek to embarrass him.

When it comes down to his hands Nasir is even softer of touch than before, treating him as if he is delicate parchment and not made of solid bone and skin. He takes them one at a time; delicately washing them with a scrap of cloth and spreading a herbal mix on them before wrapping them in another clean peace of cloth. 

“I fear I may never have use of them, my grip yet fails me,” Agron murmurs, voice broken as he looks at his only measure of worth, his ability to fight fall before his eyes.

“Please turn mind from wounds and towards safety amongst friends. I thought you gone from this world and cursed my not going with you.” Nasir presses on his chest and guides him down on the cot to draw the skins overtop them. It feels good to have skin pressed flush against skin again. A long cherished memory now fulfilled yet again.

“I would not have wished you with me, Crixus lost his life and I yet barely cling to mine,” Agron whispers, eyes misting at the images of Nasir getting stabbed and worse.

“I would have hoped that all of you had kept your lives if only to wipe the grief from Naevia’s heart. To have him robbed from her life just as they have been reunited, after all they went through a lifetime is not long enough to pay back the years robbed from their sweet lives. Crixus and Naevia deserved better from the gods.” Nasir’s breath is warm on his cheek and Agron feels his eyelids drooping from exhaustion brought on by the feeling of safety encompassing him.

“The gods have nothing to do with the will of Romans, they wish to damn us all,” Agron grunts as sleep takes hold and rests him from consciousness.

||

When he wakes Nasir is curled against his side as if they had never parted. The furs swallow them and trap their heat to ward against the cold. Agron feels better than he has in days, weeks even, and accounts it to the peace of mind he has finally received being beside Nasir once more. At his slight movement Nasir stirs, eyes blearily searching the space beside him to assure that Agron is still within arm’s reach. 

He presses the back of his hand to the man’s forehead and smiles in response, “your fever has broken during the night, a good sign towards recovery.” Agron hadn’t known he had one, but it makes sense. “Here, water and some food,” Nasir presses a cup he has retrieved from the ground and a plate of fruits and dried meats.

“Nasir,” Agron grunts to stop him, allowing the cup to be pushed into his hand and wet parched throat. “I have yet been able to enjoy your company properly.” The man has the decency to flush, eyes trailing to the plate he holds clasped in his hands.

“I have only thought of getting you well, apologies for forgetting self,” Nasir places the plate away from them and moves back into Agron’s arms. “I have missed you greatly, pain greater than the wound of a Roman’s sword.”

“I agree, thought was consumed by when we would be reunited, that was all I longed for.” Agron catches the tilt of Nasir’s head and drops a kiss to the man’s slightly parted lips, bereft of the feeling for so long. He drops another; this kiss more heated than the last and lingers for the slide of lips against lips. Nasir pushes forward, angling his head and parting mouth for Agron’s tongue to seek inside.

“Let me take care of you,” Nasir moans, fingers flying to Agron’s subligaria with purpose. The man halts him with a touch of his fingers, his hand unable to grasp the man’s wrist. “Shh, I miss the feel of you, let me take care of you while you are yet weak from wounds.” Agron grunts lowly in approval, hand sinking away even as he longs to be an active part in their coupling.

“See favor returned when strength is returned to proper form,” Agron promises with a press of his lips to the center of his love’s forehead.

“See many days to come before us for favor to be returned.”

“Agreed.”

Nasir takes him in hand, cock surging to life even when body is yet weak. It yearns for the familiar touch of lover reunited. The Syrian does not disappoint, hand stroking him from suffering embers to full flames with practiced skill. Nasir yet knows the ways to pleasure him and sets about stoking the fire burning in the pit of his stomach. His thighs tremble with the effort of not thrusting into his warm and waiting grip. A burden doubled when Nasir smoothly leans down and takes Agron’s warm cock within his mouth. His tongue is hot and wet against his glans easily wringing a pleasured cry from Agron’s scratchy throat. “Nasir—whatever fate’s plan, she has seen me to you and I thank her for it.” A particularly skilled pull of his throat and Agron’s eyelids are fluttering shut of their own violation.

“As do I,” Nasir slips off his cock with an obscene pop of his mouth, only furthering Agron’s arousal and tightening his groin. “Spend for me, prove to me you are really here back in my arms,” Nasir whispers entreatingly, hand all the while stroking his length in increasing speed. A tightening of his grip and a twist of his wrist has Agron coming across the man’s knuckles and his own stomach. A pleased groan the only sound besides panting in the small tent.

“I wish to spend eternity in your arms,” Agron chokes out, emotion clogging his throat as he presses his face into Nasir’s hair. “But I may be unable to grip anything, where is my worth in this life if I can neither grip sword nor cock? I am useless as a warrior and as a lover.”

“Agron, purpose can be found without the ability to grip sword. There are other ways to fight the Romans. And the same goes for gripping cock. Have faith in finding one’s purpose anew.” Nasir looks so genuinely sure of his statement that Agron cannot place further words on the subject. He is sure that if put to task the Syrian would find way to have Agron never leave his side again and if that means figuring out a way for him to fight then so be it.

“I am indebted to the gods for granting me such a gift as you,” Nasir thanks lying down again to curl into his lover’s side.

“As am I.”


End file.
